style="font-size:15px;"> She wasn’t, of course. But he couldn’t know that. Could he? Her nerves jangled. Could he? But what if he was out there, somewhere, near by, watching her?
Her heart almost stopped. If he lived near here, or was down there in the street, he could see her lights on; he would know she was in the flat.
Suddenly a new idea occurred to her. What if it wasn’t the guy who had been ringing her? What if this was Philip or Diana, ringing her from their honeymoon hotel, to check that she was OK? They would be worried if she didn’t answer, at this hour of the night.
She ran out of the kitchen into the sitting-room, snatched up the ringing phone.
‘Hello?’ she breathlessly said.
‘I wondered how long it would be before you answered,’ the smoky voice said, and her heart skipped a beat.
‘Why are you doing this? Stop ringing me; leave me alone—who are you?’ she gabbled, hardly aware what she was saying.
‘Haven’t you remembered yet? Never mind, you will.’
‘Look, it’s very late, and I’m tired; will you get off this line? And don’t ring again!’ Annie shakily said.
‘Are you ready for bed?’ he whispered, and she began to tremble, almost believing he could see her. He knew she was only wearing a robe and was naked underneath it. ‘You must be tired; you’ve had a long day,’ he said, and her eyes stretched wide, in shock. ‘I won’t keep you up; I just wanted to say goodnight,’ he murmured softly. ‘I’ll be seeing you soon, Annie.’
The phone went dead again, and she slammed her own down, panic pouring through her. He was coming here. What else had that meant?
She ran to the front door of the flat to check it was locked, stood in the hallway listening to the usual silence, waiting for the sound of his footsteps, for a ring on the door.
It was minutes before she remembered the security system in the flats. He couldn’t get in; the night porter downstairs on the desk would ring her, wouldn’t admit anyone until she said it was OK.
Yet somehow she wasn’t entirely sure. She waited, her heart in her mouth. The minutes ticked by; nothing happened. No phone rang; nobody came to the door. She shakily retreated to the living-room, sat staring at the silent phone, waiting.
It was two hours before she realised he wasn’t coming; not tonight, at least. She wondered then if she should ring the police, move out, go to a hotel, but she wouldn’t let this crazy person drive her from her home. When Phil and Di got back they would be horrified if they heard about it; they’d feel guilty, think that she couldn’t cope alone.
No, this was some sort of war of nerves. For some reason this man was trying to frighten her, but she wasn’t going to let him. What could the police do if she told them about it? Monitor her phone calls? Maybe she should have her number changed again. But then how had he got this number in the first place, and would he get the new one too?
Who was he? How did he know so much about her?
She went to bed, and managed to sleep after a while. When she woke up next morning she had a confused memory of a dream; phones had been ringing, a voice had haunted her sleep, there had been strange, terrifying flashes of light, and for some reason she had kept hearing the sea.
It must have been the traffic of London in the distance, she decided as she got ready. It sometimes sounded like the sea when you heard it at night, and the flashes of light must have been headlights from passing cars.
She and the band rehearsed hard for eight hours that day. She had no time to think about anything else, but as she drove home that evening she began to wonder what messages she was going to find on the answerphone, and her nerves leapt as she switched on the machine.
There were none. Relief made her feel almost sick, but the next day she rushed to the answerphone as soon as she got back to her flat. This time there was a short message from Philip’s office. No messages from the whispering voice. Perhaps he had got tired of playing cat and mouse with her, had given up the game or turned his attention elsewhere.
She got a card from Philip and Diana a couple of days later: blue skies, palm trees, a ludicrously blue sea and on the other side a message that made her laugh, ending with a reminder that they would meet her and the band in Paris in a week. They would need time to rehearse at the venue itself, and do Press interviews before the tour began, and Annie hoped to get in some sightseeing.
Annie was beginning to get used to living alone by the time she drove to Heathrow to catch the flight to Paris. The equipment was going overland, and then by sea, in large vans, and the band had all elected to go with it. Brick, in particular, had a neurotic fear of something happening to his amazingly expensive drums if they got out of his sight. Annie preferred to fly, though; it was quicker and more comfortable.
There had been no more of the weird phone calls; she was sleeping normally again and looking forward to seeing Di and Phil very soon. She was going to have to get used to the fact that they belonged to each other now, more than they did to her, of course. It would be painful, difficult at times; but Annie was determined to get over this first awkward phase of the new relationship. The other two meant too much to her for her to want to lose them. She would simply have to live with her feelings, as she had for years now, and maybe one day she would meet someone else, and get over Phil at last.
She would be the first to arrive in Paris, since the band would take quite a while to drive across France with all their equipment. They planned to stop en route at a hotel for the night, and they would join Annie at the hotel the following day.
Philip’s secretary had arranged for Annie to be met at the airport by a chauffeur-driven car, and she had an escort on the plane, a couple of security men hired by Phil to make sure she had no problems on the flight. They all sat in first-class, the men on the aisle side, in case someone tried to talk to Annie, who sat by the window.
She was casually dressed in a black and scarlet skiing jacket under which she wore a white silk jersey shirt, and black ski-pants and boots. A few passengers walked past, staring, but she kept her face averted, staring out of the window, and when they landed she was whisked through the VIP channel at Charles de Gaulle and escorted almost immediately out of a side-door. A large black limousine was waiting. The two security men had words with the chauffeur in a dark suit, who got out as they approached. He held the door open for Annie, half bowing, murmured a greeting in French, and Annie climbed into the back and settled down in the luxurious, leather-upholstered interior, while her Gucci luggage was loaded on to the car.
The two security men weren’t coming with her in the car; they were returning to England. A French security team would take over whenever required. The driver closed the door and got behind the wheel, then the limousine purred softly away and from behind smoked glass windows she watched the airport terminal disappear as they followed the unwinding ribbon on the auto-route.
It was some minutes later that she turned her gaze to the front again, and noticed the driver. She hadn’t noticed his face when she got into the car, and now she couldn’t see it, but he had smooth black hair and wide shoulders. She caught a glimpse of his neck, tanned and powerful above a white collar. He hadn’t said a word to her since they set off, for which she was grateful, because now that she was in France she was nervous about practising her French. She had been learning it for years, and could talk quite easily to her teacher, but that was a very different matter from talking to French people in their own country.
She
